HINDU
MOON is the story of an Englishman and his love for a young widow and
their brief romance, But he is whisked away to England without telling
her goodbye.Handicapped, he doesn't return to Ceylon to find
her,but upon his death, he bequeathes an estate of 75 million pounds
to her and her children. The task of finding her a quarter century
later falls to a barrister who must go to Sri Lanka and find the
womanand her children, and give them their inheritance, amid a
country embroiled in a civil war.

EXCERPT

Chapter One

London, 1983

The sounds of Londonare faint as Nick
Newhouse sits in the quiet of his office after another restless night and
another argument with Meredith. At twenty-nine, Nick is stuck in a loveless,
childless marriage, with a wife who constantly reminds him of his
failings.

He could still envision
Meredith, twenty and spunky, red hair and green eyes flashing with her quick
smile. She had taken him completely by surprise and he became instantly
infatuated with her. He accepted her invitation to walk in the garden,
abandoning her father’s party, a festive occasion to celebrate his father’s
retirement. They walked and talked, chatting about anything, about nothing, as
she slipped her hand into his, pulling him towards the lake on the pretense of
looking at the swans. She had asked for his handkerchief to spread on the grass,
to protect her clothes, as he knelt beside her, feeling warmth in her
smile.

She was forward, placing his
hand in her lap, hers resting gently on top, as she leaned towards him, placing
her lips on his. But she withdrew quickly, teasingly, pretending shyness for the
boldness of her action, explaining he possessed the charms to sweep a girl off
her feet.

He shook his head, free of the
haziness of her flirtation, married four years and hardened by a romance gone
sour. He probably would have caught on to her ploys had she not intensified her
efforts, tangling him in her web. After the second date, she had feigned her
surrender to his irresistible charisma, she said, and taken him to bed, exposing
him to wonders of lovemaking he had only suspected. The romance was heated and
fast-paced, marked with frequent episodes of passion, highlighted by their
efforts in the back seat of her father’s limo, in the garden, or several
sessions in the library of her home. Rarely did they find time to make love in
bed, not until the wedding night, with exhausting feats of passion from many
positions, in every room, and on all the furniture. But she seemed to tire of
lovemaking, or of him, he wasn’t sure which.

It began when he had refused to
join his wife’s family’s company and handle legal affairs. She had become angry
and more disenchanted, ridiculing him for not building the law practice, and for
failing to bring home the income she had expected.

He sipped his cup of coffee and
watched as the day slowly lightened, giving definition to the buildings, poles,
and lines throughout his neighborhood. He continued thinking of how miserable
his life had become, loveless and without prospects in either his profession or
his passions.

He heard the outer door open and
rose to see who was there.

“May I help
you?”

“Yes, suh. I ‘ave a delivery for
a Mr. Nicholas New’ouse, Barrister.”

“I’m Newhouse. I’ll take
it.”

“You’ll ‘aveta show me some
identification, guv’ner.”

“Certainly.” Nick showed the man
his license and signed for the large envelope, placing a shilling in the man’s
open hand.

“Thank ya, guv’ner, and good day
to ya.”

Nick didn’t recognize the
Liverpool return address. He slipped the opener
into the envelope and slid it across the width of the thick paper, allowing the
contents to fall onto his desk. He picked up the stapled legal document and read
the title page. “Last Will and Testament of Robert Lewis
Lowell.”

Lowell, thought
Nick to himself, remembering the man of whom his father had so often spoken.
Lowell was a businessman with offices in
London, Liverpool, Glasgow, Belfast, and
Dublin. He was
handicapped, having lost the use of his left arm in an accident, but had amassed
a small fortune from his businesses.

“Was is right,” Nick said aloud
as he glanced at the evidence of the man’s death. He noticed a second thick
envelope lying on his desk, one addressed to him, and marked, “Personal and
Confidential.”

Nick opened the envelope and
removed the pages within, allowing a slip of paper to fall onto the desk. He
picked it up and gasped. It was a bank draft made out to him for five hundred
thousand pounds. A notation on the draft read, “For duties as
executor.”

Nick was extremely puzzled, but
flushed with excitement of so much money. He retrieved the letter and began
reading.

15 January
1983

Nicholas Newhouse,
Esquire

London

My dear Mr.
Newhouse,

As you read this letter, you are
aware of my death, but as I write it, and my will, I assure you I am of sound
mind, if not body, and am fully aware of my actions. My own solicitor has gone
to considerable trouble to vouch for my sanity and has filed these papers with
the proper courts. Thus, I assure you, the instructions contained within this
letter and the document are free of all legal challenges and you can proceed
with all haste to execute them.

As the son of one of my closest
associates, I have chosen you, for I suspect you also possess the same fierce
honesty as your father. Also, my inquiries have revealed you are a man of
impeccable reputation, unsullied by greed, politics, or wanton ambition. Thus,
it is with confidence I entrust the bulk of my estate to you to administer
according to the terms set forth in my will.

Nick, my estate totals to about
seventy-five million pounds. The sums are available to you at various
institutions listed in the will, and you will have no difficulty getting access
to these funds as you need them. I trust you will see the monies distributed as
described in the document. The enclosed draft is to serve as a retainer and you
will receive the customary commission for your services.

I want you, Nick, to go to
Sri
Lanka, for it is there you will find the only
woman I have ever loved. It is to her, her children, and her village that you
will administer my estate. The attached letter of that time in my life will give
you more details, but I will tell you briefly all I know of them and the
village.

I do not know the name of the
village, or even if it had a name. It is southwest of the city of Trincomalee, on the eastern coast of Sri Lanka. It is small with twenty or thirty huts located near a large lake
east of the river Yan. I remember a very large tree on the edge of the village
where I camped. It was thick and produced a large canopy, offering excellent
shelter.

The woman’s name is Sharaah, but
I don’t know her last name. She had two children, a boy, eight, and a girl, six.
She was a widow at the time of my arrival, as a crocodile had killed her
husband. I do not remember the names of the children, or if I ever knew them.
Sharaah would be about forty-nine now, still young enough to enjoy the trust you
establish for her.

There was an old man in the village who
spoke good English, and I remember his name was Kumar Nasikanilam. He was old
then and it is doubtful he is still living, but there may be people who remember
him. They were Hindus and there was much friction between them and the ruling
Buddhists. Nasikanilam had explained the situation to me, always cautioning me
to be careful, but I failed to heed his warnings. He was a wonderfully bright
man, and I found the people very warm and friendly, at least before I settled
with Sharaah.

There was also a Buddhist
officer in Trincomalee, Captain Sirimavo Sakti, of the Sinhalese army, who may
also be able to help you. He may remember me. If he does, he will remember the
village and can show you where it is.

Please, give it all the effort
you can and find them for me. Once you locate Sharaah and her children,
establish trusts for them, to provide for their welfare and their families,
forevermore.

For the village, establish a
hospital, schools, better housing, water, electricity, and any other civilities
it needs. If you are able, establish a fund for the improvements of other rural
villages. Do this for me, Nick, for it is all I am able to do to amend my
failures to them.

Complete instructions and
details are contained in the Will.

In the event you are
unsuccessful, or should you choose not to accept the commission, please return
the documents and retainer to my solicitor who has further
instructions.

Good luck, my
boy.

Robert L.
Lowell

Liverpool

Nick laid the letter on the
desk, stunned with its contents and excited at the prospect of this assignment.
It was the break he had dreamed of, one that would insure his future for the
remainder of his life. He would be wealthy with the retainer alone, not even
considering the long term administration of the trusts. But he would have to
find the woman, her children, and the village, with very little to go on, in a
foreign land torn with civil unrest. If he were to fail, then he would have to
face Meredith with another failure, a prospect he didn’t want to
consider.

As he picked up the lengthy
manuscript, he was pleased and felt the heat of excitement, a challenge to his
skills. He settled back to read the story of Robert Lowell’s one true love, and
he had little conception of the events that awaited him.